


Made in China

by Senket



Series: The Clothes Make The Man [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really likes John's jumpers. John sort of likes that Sherlock likes his jumpers. Even if he's a dirty thief. <i>Dirty.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Made in China

**Author's Note:**

>   Due to all the 'what about the stripped jumper?' comments. Also, established relationship, because that thing you all assumed happened after they went home from the opera? Yes. It happened.

John shouldered the door open, muttering ‘I’m back,’ exhausted, leaning against the frame heavily as he gratefully dropped his duffle bag against the wall. He flipped the light on, glancing about blearily.

It took a moment or two before he could process what he was seeing; the table was overturned, papers everywhere. The odd bovine head they’d had on the wall had fallen, askew against the bookcase- the shelves were bare, revealing a few cubbyholes dug into the wall John had never seen before. Every drawer was open, files and books strewn across the floor. Panic seized him, flaring his senses awake. He’d only been gone a long weekend, damnit, what had _happened_? 

‘ _Moriarty?_ ’ he thought, alarm bursting through him. How would the man have known? No, stupid, _stupid!_ Moriarty was _always_ watching.

Frantic for a clue, he darted about, looking at everything, through everything, desperate to find something, anything, out of place. The kitchen was in little better shape, three bullet holes in what was a nearly perfect equilateral triangle just below the window. What did _that_ mean?

Next room. Next.

John threw open the door to Sherlock’s room next, expecting the worst, and came to a stuttering halt. He stared, hard and blank, before deflating suddenly, sagging with relief. “Idiot,” he breathed aloud, uncertain whether he meant him or the other man, running his fingers over his short hair.

The room was just as much a disaster zone as the rest of the flat: what had once been fairly orderly piles of books and files in a streak across the floor, clothes tossed about haphazardly- Sherlock was sleeping among it, apparently completely content. He looked adorable now, curled atop his covers like a kitten. For a man of such tall frame, he looked surprisingly small. One slim, pale hand dangled over the edge of the bed, bare feet pressing together. His pyjama pant-legs had crept up his legs, one mid-calf and the other twisted around his knee. His hair was a mess, head pressed below the crook of his elbow.

Best of all, Sherlock was wearing a jumper. It was far too short on him, revealing a long strip of fair skin, the sleeves twisted and bunched around his elbows. It was also far too loose on him. It seemed to swallow his slight shape, neckline stretched to expose the length of his collarbone. And that stripped black and white jumper was eerily familiar.

“Complete idiot,” John repeated with a crooked smile. He toed off his shoes, tossing his jacket arbitrarily somewhere in the mess, and climbed up on the bed. Wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s slim waist, palm flattened against the soft skin right above the man’s hip, John pressed himself against the man’s back. Adrenaline burned out, he fell into sleep quickly.

John woke in more or less the same position. Warmed by the body at his back, Sherlock had relaxed in his sleep, slowly uncurling. They were stretched in parallel now, John’s nose pressed against the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Their fingers had laced sometime in the night, legs tangled together. Light slanted across them, heat making his thighs tingle where it fell across them. Considering the window faced southwest, he knew it to be past noon.

When had Sherlock ever slept this late? 

He pressed closer with a soft sigh, nuzzling into dark curls. Sherlock shifted, mumbling in answer. He pulled back just far enough to turn. John felt himself smile, rough fingers rubbing against the ridges of Sherlock’s upper spine. “Good afternoon.”

Sherlock didn’t really answer, blinking blearily as he inspected the other man, running long fingers over the curves of his jaw, his cheek, the line of his neck, his shoulders.

Humming contentedly, John cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s warm neck, pulling him in for a sleepy kiss. After a moment of peaceful calm, foreheads pressed together, John ran his fingers over the worn-soft jumper, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, knuckles against Sherlock’s ribs. “I thought your mother had vanished this one.”

The man puffed a breath of air against John’s cheek, smiling a little as he glanced coyly at the doctor through his lashes. “I may have secreted this one away.”

John hummed in answer, stretching his back slightly, smiling when he felt Sherlock’s foot rubbing lazily against his calf. Rolling his head against the pillow, he watched the detective fall back into a light doze. After a long moment he sat up, intent on breakfast. Sherlock didn’t whine, per se, but he did make a very pointed sound, curling his fingers into John’s collar in an effort to tug him down again.

Despite a dramatic sigh, he acquiesced immediately, stretching out and allowing the longer-limbed man to curl against him. Stroking fingers against sweat-slicked skin, John glanced down at the head of dark curls tucked against his side. “So why, exactly, does our flat look like it’s been ransacked?” Sherlock grumbled. “Say again,” he chuckled, spreading his fingers against Sherlock’s side, counting breaths.

Sherlock shifted up on his elbow, glowering through his hair. John flashed a smile, amused when the detective glanced away, apparently embarrassed. “I said I couldn’t remember where I’d hidden it.” He laughed and Sherlock only scrunched him nose at him before lying back down.

John felt the other man’s breath even out through his fingers, allowing himself to fall into a light doze.

He couldn’t remember falling asleep but he must’ve, because now Sherlock was pressed over him like a blanket, scrapping his teeth lightly against his jaw as he rocked against the shorter man. “Sherlock?” John asked, pressing nails into pale skin.

“You’re back,” Sherlock said, gripping John’s forearms as he moved. John sucked in a breath, hips roiling in reply, rolling his head back. Warm lips attached themselves to the tendons in his neck, hot tongue tracing their line. John moaned, surprise and delight, gripping Sherlock’s waist. Shivering at the feel of Sherlock’s warm lips dragging lightly over his skin, worrying at the tender spot just below his left ear, John surged forward, flipping the lanky body off his with ease. 

Burying a hand in Sherlock’s hair, John pulled him off his neck. Sherlock barely had time to glance at him before John crushed their mouths together, rough, unyielding. Sherlock sighed into his mouth; John pushed forward until his lover could barely do more than respond. He felt Sherlock’s long fingers grip his shoulders, grip clenching spastically.

John wormed out of the hold, pushing forward for one more hard kiss before moving to Sherlock’s exposed collarbone, nails dragging against skin. Sherlock liked the sharp, almost-painful feeling, and John always had a hard time refusing him.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, rocking his hips up. The doctor smirked, rising just long enough to kiss his lover lightly before moving to his ribs. John licked and sucked and nibbled and kissed down Sherlock’s left side, dragging his nails hard against his stomach. He paused again at a soft whimper, glancing up quickly before lowering his head, pressing his nose just inside the dip of Sherlock’s hip. John pushed the other man’s pants down in one move, ghosting his fingers over slick skin.

Sherlock whimpered and sucked in a shaky breath, legs shaking as he kicked off his pyjamas, drawing his knees up to lock around John’s torso. Rubbing his thumb against the dip of his hip, John mouthed the inside of Sherlock’s thigh until it was shiny with saliva. He moved to an unperceivable scar tucked against the inner edge of the detective’s knee, and Sherlock went absolutely still but for the jumping and bunching of muscles where John’s fingers roamed, unbidden.

Licking the corners of his mouth, John sat up, gaze flickering over Sherlock’s long body. The lanky detective had his head thrown back against the pillow, eyes unfocused as his fingers worked against his scalp, tongue caught between his teeth, throat working.

The first time he’d felt Sherlock become absolutely immobile under his touch, John had very nearly had a panic attack in the middle of their bedroom. He knew better now- the stillness was Sherlock Holmes letting go, sinking into sensation until he forgot how to speak, mewling heady, pleased sighs and involuntary gasps but little else, forgot how to do anything but let it happen and _feel everything_. Oh Sherlock wasn’t always like that but, _god_ , when he _was_. When he allowed it. And John was the only one who could do this to Sherlock.

And Sherlock was gorgeous right now.

He looked absolutely obscene, mouth bruised and wet as he panted softly, pupils blown, bare but for the oversized jumper. Traces of red against white flushed across Sherlock’s cheeks and neck, colouring across his shoulders, in lines down his belly where John had dragged his fingernails, blooming across his thighs where the doctor had sucked kisses, up the cock straining against his stomach, dark and full.

John surged forward, crushing their lips together again. He reached for the jumper but felt Sherlock surge up, strong hands gripping his wrists. “What,” he hissed, not particularly keen on being interrupted, laying sharp little bites down Sherlock’s neck.

“I want to keep it on,” Sherlock said, though it sounded like it had taken effort to concentrate on the words.

“What for?” against that spot beneath his ear again, worrying at it until it became bruised- Sherlock could hide it with his hair if he really cared. John rather hoped he wouldn’t.

“Smells all wrong now. I want-“

John growled, kissing him fiercely, thrusting his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, rocking hard against him. He shucked off his clothes as fast as humanly possible, pressing tightly against the other man without hesitation. Sherlock groaned in surprise, hips stuttering against the sudden heat, fingers skittering against slick skin.

John chuckled, breathless, before catching Sherlock’s lips in a kiss full of movement and sharp edges, gripping his arse to press him closer as they rutted together, other hand tangled into the man’s messy curls.

Sherlock finally settled on gripping his shoulders again, wrapping his long legs around the doctor’s waist. 

John didn’t stop kissing Sherlock, hungry and unrelenting. Sherlock hardly seemed to mind, making needy sounds in the back of his throat as he rocked against him.

Not really how he’d intended their first exchange back to go, but John particularly didn’t mind right now.

He might’ve tried to move if he thought Sherlock would let him; instead he kept kissing him, tugging roughly on the man’s hair to change the angle when it pleased him, revelling in the surprised gasps, the stuttered thrust of hips against his.

He felt Sherlock’s breath start to lose rhythm, quick like hyperventilating, before he felt the muscles in Sherlock’s slim thighs tense against his hips. John shivered when Sherlock threw his head back involuntarily, mouth open in a soundless cry as he gave a great shudder and went still against him, wet warmth spreading between them. 

John groaned, licking the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. After a moment’s pause he started moving again, open mouth pressed against the man’s jaw, rubbing himself against the crease between a shaking thigh and hip until he came, too, crying out Sherlock’s name into his throat.

Their muscles relaxed gradually, John sinking lazily into the bony body under him, feeling the slowing heartbeat through his ribcage.

“Well, that was a little more graceless than I had been hoping,” John mumbled against reddened skin, lightly scratching at Sherlock’s scalp in apology for the rough treatment he’d given- not that Sherlock complained, but he wasn’t _now_ either.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, a sound that seemed rather amused at the situation in general.

“Shut up,” John groaned in answer, rolling over and slowly sitting up in an attempt to get them something to wash up. His legs felt like jelly. “I just. I dunno.” He glanced back with a cocked eyebrow; the way Sherlock was looking at him made him want to hop right back where he’d been and never leave. “I’ll never be able to look at stripes again.”

Sherlock glanced down at himself, running his fingers lightly over the fabric, smiling a little oddly. Peering upwards, he gestured at John to shift closer. With a sigh (and a smile,) he complied, swinging his legs back onto the bed to sit cross-legged, knees pressed up against Sherlock’s side and thigh. “What?”

In one (embarrassingly fluid, considering,) movement, Sherlock had removed the jumper, and was now using it to clean himself off, before stroking the fabric across John’s abdomen.

John felt himself flush to the root of his hair, snatching the item away and tossing it over into the mess. “You’ll have to wash it now,” John told Sherlock, exasperated. 

“That’s fine,” Sherlock answered, eyes warm and promising. “We’ll just have to stink it up again.”

John pushed Sherlock down for another kiss, and only didn’t stay because he was going to die of hunger otherwise.

 


End file.
